


Offences Against Decency

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Sherlock needs Enola to pretend to be his wife. It's for a case, so none of the kissing counts--investigating and sleuthing is only to be expected when it comes to a Holmes.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	Offences Against Decency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allyoops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/gifts).



"Enola," says a voice from above in that vague reproach, half-admonishment hiding amusement that can only belong to her brother Sherlock. Nobody else has that timbre and softness when calling her name. It’s nice and comforting, usually.

Right now, it is inconvenient. She doesn't react in any way, because she currently is perfectly disguised as a paperboy sleeping next to his stack of papers. She’s been waiting for Arthur, the boy she’s borrowed these clothes from, because he’s promised to come by when he has the time to introduce her to a friend with excellent memory, which is going to help her news information network enormously. Arthur might be stuck delivering his mother’s groceries again, however, because it’s well past noon.

She’s found herself a lovely spot in the shade, hiding from the high summer sun, and the cobblestone beneath her is still refreshingly cool. Her boobs are bound, her uniform is scuffed and slightly too large in the way that will make it seem like she's supposed to grow into it, and she even smells like unwashed teenager. Her hair is perfectly greasy and hidden underneath a hat.

He has never noticed her newsboy disguises in the past so why did he need to point them out today of all times when she was practicing blending in near the dockside, where happenings were _interesting_. 

"Enola!" he repeats, this time with an inflection more reminiscent of Mycroft when he throws a tantrum. She's not quite ready to submit to the inevitable: What was it going to be this time? Sherlock wasn't the type to send the bios of eligible gents so that she could pick the one she could marry, but he was nevertheless somehow of the opinion that she was vulnerable and needed protecting.

What she was vulnerable to were the economic pitfalls of being a person without vocation living in the most expensive city of the world, but that was not something Sherlock of all people could help her with. Or; if he could, then he would attach conditions to the exchange that Enola would not happily fulfil, which, really, were the same difference, in the end.

Sherlock does not move. He keeps standing there, and she knows how he's going to look-- His hair curling around his ears, as if he had missed one barber's appointment. He'd be dressed in woollens, and silk, and it would emphasise the cut of his waist and the dimples in his smile. Sherlock is vain, and he dressed like he knew exactly how good-looking he was. She was desperately trying not to look, but oh, how she wanted! Slowly, she opened her eyes a tiny sliver. Beneath the brim of the newsboy cap she can just make out his shoes—brown, daywear, shined to perfection. There was not even a speck of dirt on his soles—he must have come straight out of his own parlour. Considering they were currently on the Southwark near the dockside, that was quite an achievement.

"Yer standing in the light, Mister," she answers. As soon as the words tumble out of her mouth she regrets it. The dialect is too uneven, it feels contrived, and the syllables taste wrong in her mouth—they should flow between her teeth like natural. Instead, she’s pronouncing her d and t’s like the worst boarding school chap.

There’s a pause. Sherlock judging her no doubt, though she was certain _his_ first attempts at emulating something along the lines of a little bit of Cockney, little bit of general Estuary, a mixture that feels natural enough and different enough to blend in for a maximum number of people. “That was—” he says finally, obviously struggling on finding words. Yeah, okay, back to the mirror and practising it was.

She takes off her hat and crumples it behind her back. “I’m practising,” she defends herself.

His look is indeed very judgemental, but contrary to his usual behaviour, he swallows all his comments down. He’s dressed perfectly, of course, just like she had surmised. His suit is a brown colour, matching his shoes to the sole. The shirt, white silk, probably horrendously expensive and imported from India, is not even a little bit wrinkled. The brocade of his vest is blue and beige and adds that certain je-nais-se-quoi he spent too much at the tailor adding. Sherlock was up to something, and didn’t trust his powers of persuasion to deliver them, which was very smart of him because Sherlock’s powers of persuasion were worth jack shit.

“What do you want?” she says, and this runs better together in her mouth.

“Better!” he says, with a raised eyebrow. 

Enola does not need any of this condescension. 

She frowns and tips her hat back down. If she doesn’t see him, he’ll go away eventually right? There’s no way he’s going to drag a filthy newsboy away looking like a dandy out to woo his girlfriend, is he? 

She tilts her head to the side to peek through her fringe. He’s very clearly fuming, but does still seem to want something from her, and whatever he wants doesn’t seem to be going back to finishing school, which is excellent, because that way she can consider maybe doing it. She’s still going to let him hang for a while, it’ll do him good if only so he might have some doubts about his seduction methods needing work.

“If you’re gonna be this way, brother, then it’s really best that you leave.” Enola said finally. “I doubt you’re here for a nice little chat or a newspaper, and there’s really not more I can offer.”

Her brother, the inimitable detective known to all of London, England, and perhaps the world, rocked back on his feet as if he’d been given the greatest affront. “I come here in my finest Thursday suit, and this is how you greet me!”

“That’s a very fine Mycroft impression you got there, anything else you want to get off your chest? Perhaps on girls dressing up as boys and renting their own abode in the city?”

“I didn’t come here to start a fight,” Sherlock said, annoyed. He didn’t continue and just stared at her.

“Well, you did.” Enola said. “What do you want, then?”

Sherlock grits his teeth, looks over her shoulder to the wall she’s leaning against, and then--as if conveying a great heartfelt matter of utmost importance-- presses through a clenched jaw, “I need a woman.”

It’s too funny. Enola cannot help but let out a loud bellowing laugh, before she stifles it and continues her performance. This is too good. He’s come to her for help! The mind boggles. “You’re at the right place then, my lucky fellow! Right around the corner, there’s a wide variety of different sizes and tastes. Between me and you I would recommend Emma, she has this clever belt with an attachable—“

“Enola!” He interrupts loudly and then more quietly, “you know that’s not what I meant. I need to borrow,” he makes a vague gesture to her general corpus. Her brother can truly be inept regarding social matters, sometimes.

Enola could see the interest of the noisy neighbour from across the street. This was perhaps not the ideal place to get into a philosophical question about her brother’s opinions on women in general and her abilities in "I’m not going with you," Enola said. "You’re going to trick me into staying at Miss Harrison’s Finishing School. Well, I am very capable of escaping from there, as I’ve demonstrated, and I don’t wish to waste any of your precision time on me."

Sherlock looks up. "Indeed. I deserved that, yes. I am honestly looking for a partner for this single — just one— investigation, as I am incapable of going there by myself."

Enola eyes him suspiciously. It sounds like bullcrap not the least because Sherlock is an amazing sleuth and she cannot imagine anything that would stump him. If he needed a woman, he would also have his choice of them—he wouldn’t need to go to her. "Do you swear?"

There’s a bright flash of amusement in his eyes, and she immediately regrets ever even showing a hint of wanting to agree. He doesn’t deride her, however, not even a little joke, instead he earnestly promises, "I swear I won’t rat you out to Mycroft or trick you into staying at Miss Harrison’s Finishing School."

Enola lays her head to the side and considers. "Alright, agreed. We have a deal. I am very interested in a conundrum that will stump even you."

Sherlock opens his mouth as if he wants to protest, but then instead his lips twist into a smile. "Come along," he says. "I have a place nearby where we can talk."

* * *

The place he was leading to was not at all nearby. Only Sherlock kept going past what Enola assumed would be perfectly legitimate and fine places to talk: the corner away from the noisy neighbours, then the bench hidden behind a tree on a small corner park. Her feet—in borrowed, not-well-fitted shoes padded only by an atrocious number of socks—were aching by the time he swept into the doorway of just another brownstone in a developing part of town. Baker Street 221 B looked new with an imposing facade, but among the row of the street it didn’t stand out much.

Sherlock ran up the stoop and opened the door without knocking, in the same impolite manner he had picked her up from her nice and cozy newspaper spot.

"Mrs Hudson," he greeted a woman who hasted out of the doorway. "I’m bringing my sister up."

The so-called Mrs Hudson didn’t pause at that, which raised Enola’s esteem of her a couple of points. She just waved them on through with a lazy sweep of her arm. Enola greets her with a slight bow, because she hasn’t said a single thing about the roughness of her outfit or the smell and it just seems polite. 

There’s nothing more she needs to do to slip into her good graces, as Mrs Hudson turns around on her heels and leaves with a shout of, "I’ll bring tea up, Sherlock, god knows you don’t have anything suitable for entertaining."

Before Sherlock can reply—or Enola, for that matter, she’s disappeared back behind her apartment’s door.

"My landlady," Sherlock explains apologetic. "She’s been very helpful in establishing my office. People apparently find it off-putting when a detective they hired lives at a private social club, and it was either here or wherever Mycroft lives and I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of gloating." He opens the door and slides into it, leaving her in the entrance way. It’s very clean, cleaner than Enola is used to from her own home. Briefly, she ponders her own clothing and if her shoes are too dirty to grace the parlour, but then she disregards it. Mrs Hudson would surely have mentioned any problems.

She also doesn’t keep the conversation flowing, doesn’t tell Sherlock to apply to the solicitor in charge of their trust fund for a monthly deposit of rent, as she herself is doing at Tewkesbury’s recommendation. 

Sherlock is doing better without access to money to buy his drugs of choice, she knows that, from letters he wrote to Eudoria, and in a way, this is the secret to her success at living on her own. There’s not much call for a female private investigator, even one related to the famous Sherlock Holmes.

In any case: The building he lives in is nicer than hers, his suite larger, and the distance to parliament shorter, so he shouldn’t be doing too lousy. When she opens the door to the parlour, however, she revises her opinion.

The first view she has of the room goes straight to the human skull sitting on the cocklestove. It’s probably the only place in the flat that’s easily traversable, the other furnitures—a chaise-longue, four armchairs, a long school table, and several bookcases and armoires, are arranged in a labyrinth-like path obstructing the casual visitor. Not that Enola supposes Sherlock has many of those: And perhaps it’s better business sense for a private detective to have some mysterious habits of unusual character. She makes a note for her eventual abode.

"Excuse the mess," Mrs Hudson says behind her, and Enola jumps several inches into the air. "Ah, I’m sorry, dearie. I’ve stopped making noise on the stairs, because someone keeps complaining I disrupt his thinking." She says the later part of the sentence louder and louder, which speaks to her familiarity with Sherlock. 

Enola has never heard of her, but then, she’s more familiar with his exploits through the newspaper than any informative letters and the papers notoriously don’t like to add women to famous men unless they get to make fun of them.

"I objected to running up and down the stairs at all hours of the night!" Sherlock yells back out of some hidden corner.

"It was 8 a.m." Mrs Hudson tells her in a conspiratory whisper. 

It’s loud enough to travel, anyway, and Sherlock’s head appears between two bookcases. His locks are dishevelled now, but his shoes nary have a spot. It must be magic, Enola supposes. (Or a habit developed into an instinct to avoid having mum or Mycroft even trying to deduce anything from the state of his shoes, Enola thinks cynically.)

"If I am not allowed to play the violin whenever I please, the courtesy of refraining from loud, repeated knockings during the middle of the night is really appreciated." Sherlock defends the indefensible.

Mrs Hudson just looks at Enola with a raised eyebrow. Amusement is hiding in her eyes, and not for the first time Enola thinks that it would be nice to live with her brother. Have her brother as her legal guardian, and help him with his cases on a more permanent basis. But that must be too much for Mycroft in his boring job with his boring habits and boring colleagues and boring life.

"Mycroft’s been coming here lately," Sherlock explains as if to follow up her thoughts. "That’s why the furniture is in such a state. And poor John here." He points to the skull sitting on the mantelpiece. Enola doesn’t ask, is too overwhelmed by everything. This is where her brother lives? It looks both more fancy and less conventional than she had expected. Mrs Hudson must be a saint, to let him live like this.

Meanwhile Sherlock was going on and on in the background. "He keeps having opinions on my clientele, thinks I should work only for the government and not fritter my time away with—" he breaks off, "Well, you know him."

She’s not sure she understands anything Sherlock is saying. Even so, Enola nods, even though she doesn’t know Mycroft at all, really. Miss Harrison said that he was envious of their minds, which didn’t make sense at all. Mycroft was just as smart as they were, only he used his brains to do the most boring work in the universe, and his deductions were practical and not prone to whimsy. Which was also why he had so many problems with mum. But that was only what Enola thought, and her thoughts weren’t worth much.

While Enola had hung upon her own thoughts, Sherlock had pushed two bookcases together and to the wall, opening the room to a much wider space. Hurriedly, she helped him heave the chairs into an arrangement that could be called inviting, in that it at least ensured the two of them could see each others faces. Mrs Hudson put the tea tablet on a side table, and then they all looked at each other for a minute.

“I’m investigating a case," Sherlock says. It’s unusual for him to state the obvious, and so Enola just waits for him to catch his bearings. She can see him rubbing his thumb—he’s very nervous, for some reason. Because of the case? Because of her? "It’s rather involved, a complicated matter involving rumours and blackmail. Currently, I am investigating a private social club, for which I need an invitation and a partner. First, I would like to introduce you as my…” Sherlock stops. Perhaps he has become aware of the ludicrousness of the idea he’s having, but then he rallies back, and continues with aplomb, “wife or fiancee, it seems to matter not to the proprietors of the club. We will have to attend a few dinners while making as a couple, and then hopefully they’ll let us into their exclusive club which has so far eluded my attempts to sneak in. They apparently identify all their patrons by sight and name, which is very inconvenient. It only makes me more curious what type of clientele they usually serve. My hope is to get inside legitimately, however."

"We have an appointment at 5," Sherlock said finally, and sat down. "There’s a lot to do until then, we can’t have my wife looking like this." He gestures to Enola, who, well, looks like a newsboy.

Mrs. Hudson shoots her a look. "Are you sure you want your sweet little sister to carry the responsibility of acting as your wife?" It’s very probable that Mrs Hudson believes that Enola looks like this on purpose. "I have a cousin who temps at the London Theatre."

Enola is almost insulted. "I’m perfectly capable of aping a society wife for one evening, if I must. My education was leading-edge and high-grade." She looks towards Mrs Hudson defiantly. If she wanted, she could fool the prime minister into thinking she was a Princess of Wales. If she is looking like a newsboy, then it’s because she was acting the newsboy to further her network of informants! They were going to become the perfect weapon to use if Mycroft tried to ship her off to a finishing school in the colonies, or wherever.

It’s just that Mrs Hudson probably doubts that Enola can act the perfect femme fatale. Enola makes a very beautiful temptress, although she does have more practise with nuns and newsboys.

Sherlock is the opposite of worried however. "My sweet little sister is shrewd, cunning, and knows all tricks of the trades." It doesn’t even sound that sarcastic. Enola can feel heat spread across her cheeks and ears. Nobody has acknowledged her quite like this before! 

She’s distracted and doesn’t notice how Sherlock and Mrs Hudson dance around each other, but soon enough they have arranged the area of the floor to look like a noble woman’s boudoir. A dress in deep green hung on the lampshade—undergarments in off-white and yellow on the curtains. At least two petticoats, judging by the floof. There were more than one pair of shoes with different heel-lengths, fitted to the dress 

There’s no corset, which does complicate matters a bit--these sort of dresses don’t really show the same neat and proper silhouette without a corset.

“Is there anything missing?” Sherlock asks, watching her with alert eyes.

“I really would prefer to go without,” Enola answers, tentatively, “but a corset is really something that’s necessary for a proper dress. And pockets. I need pockets.”

Sherlock had prepared, obviously, albeit he seemed very reluctant to admit it and made Mrs Hudson take the blame though how a woman Enola had never met could know her exact measurements was a mystery Sherlock wouldn’t be able to explain away. To preserve his dignity as a man, a great sacrifice on Enola’s part, she didn’t ask for an explanation. She just dressed herself.

Midway through the procedure, while Enola was painting her boobs to look a bit more full and believable, Sherlock turned impatient. He was stomping up and down the hallway, asking about the time every few seconds, and sighing with great discontent when the answer hadn’t changed in the last 15 seconds since he had asked the last time.

When Enola is dressed—she’s also demanded some pocket change in a tiny purse she keeps tucked under the corset, between her breasts, and a hairpin of seven inches that doubles as a short sword under dire circumstances—she runs into the question of shoes.

Sherlock has, for some unfathomable reason, four pairs of shoes available in her size. They almost fit as good as perfectly cobbled shoes, and she’s a bit suspicious about their origin but doesn’t ask. "What are we doing today," she asks from behind the armoires. "Should I wear shoes comfortable for sitting, or shoes comfortable for walking?"

There is a pregnant pause. "Aren’t there shoes comfortable for both?" he asks, incredulous. Enola looks at the offerings before her. Nice, well-made leather shoes, the likes of them, all very well fitted for a lady of some means. None of them have been worn before. The leather is stiff and shiny—all of the shoes, even the flat-heeled ones, will need breaking in before they can be called comfortable. Her brother is a nincompoop.

After deliberating, she chooses a low-heeled shoe she could keep wearing in her daily life without problem, once it was properly walked-in. The only thing she’s missing is the bonnet of a married woman, and some jewellery. She’s dressed in daring fashion, even though she isn’t tight laced with her corset. It sits snug, as it is supposed to, and pushes her breast up into tight mounds only barely covered by the thinnest gauze. Sherlock is visibly stunned.

When Sherlock first sees her, he is visibly stunned. His gaze feels hot on her, watching him appreciate her as a grown woman. She does not think he would have recognised her on the street—Mycroft and Sherlock both don’t really see her as the woman she has become.

Sherlock clears his throat, and then looks away from her. He’s clenching his hand tightly, and she wonders if something is bothering him about her outfit—but then he makes a grab for wooden chest and she stops worrying. He’s fine. He certainly wouldn’t be impressed by how grown-up his sister looks, right?

Meanwhile, Sherlock takes a necklace out of the box, a string of pearls. At her incredulous look, he explains, "A bit of jewellery is of utmost importance to complete the look," as if he knows anything about it. But Enola doesn’t protest—she does love dressing herself up, if she doesn’t have to do it in her daily life, and a bit of subterfuge is always exciting.

His hands are warm on her neck. They feel reassuringly large, confident. Sherlock knows what he’s doing. She wonders with whom he practiced. Did he have girlfriends while at school? Did he help mother with her necklaces when she wasn’t born yet?

And then he steps away. Enola feels the loss immediately. Instead of saying anything, she searches for a distraction, until she finally remembers the reason for coming.

"Where are we expected to be?" She expect the question to lead to an explanation, a debriefing, a short summary of the case, at least, perhaps some rough outlining of what she was going to expect on this outing—at least a mention of where exactly they were going, for god’s sake, Sherlock!

However, Sherlock takes one look at the grandfather clock standing next to the cockle stove and panics. In the blink of an eye, he has changed his cravat for a different, non-wrinkled silk tie and put on different shoes. Enola notes that his are broken in, even if they look newish.

Enola has prepared herself for a lot of things following this brief make-over, a revelation that Mycroft is behind all of this and wants to introduce her to a peer of the realm, a weird confrontational dinner with someone who wants Sherlock to marry their daughter, a strange undercover operation where she needs to pretend to be a French aristocrat married to a Russian Count— but she’s not prepared for Sherlock leading her out of Baker Street without one extra word and straight into a rented carriage.

She barely has time to tuck up her cloves properly and adjust the hat that matches her outfit perfectly before setting off into the dinky underbelly of London City. For the temperatures of June she doesn’t need a coat, and so she leaves it out. “Where are we going,” Enola asks. “What should I say about our marriage?”

Sherlock isn’t of any help, of course. He shrugs and says, “The usual niceties. Complain about my snoring.”

“You do snore something awful,” Enola agrees. The look he shoots her in retaliation is very satisfying to her soul, especially after being treated like a made-up doll. “What are we investigating? What if I accidentally talk to a murderer. Could you at least give me a hint so that I can be on the lookout for clues?”

Sherlock scoffs, as if he believed he was the only one who could ever solve crimes. But then he softens up. “This is just an introductory dinner,” he deigns to explain. “A widower is being blackmailed for having degenerate morals and murdering his wife. He paid out 50 pounds—” Enola cannot help her gasp at the astronomical sum of money, “—but is now being asked for another 20 pounds. There is apparently proof of him frequenting a club known for risque endeavours, but he swears he didn’t murder his wife. Of course, he couldn’t go to the police to investigate, seeing as the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885 bans  gross indecency and apparently orgies have been documented. While I do not have the urge to experience any of that myself, the act has been between consenting adults and out of the public eye unless the gross misdemeanour involving W.T. Stead and that poor Eliza Armstrong.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Enola says. Her mother had explained the case at great length, explaining various interests of the people involved and where it would be used against the people it was claiming to protect. The paragraph of gross indecency between males had not been as intensely discussed. Eudoria didn’t hold an opinion on the goings on of men, or orgies, in general. Enola didn’t want to explain her opinion, in that she wanted to know as little as humanly possible about what other people did in their bedrooms—though now she was very interested in what was considered proof for blackmailing purposes.

Were there photographs? But didn’t one have to move during orgies? Where there secret letters? Yellow novels starring the people in person?

“I have questions,” she said.

“Hold on to them,” Sherlock advised her. “We don’t have time to go into details. Like I said, this is just an introductory dinner so that we may receive an invitation to the private private social club the widower belongs to, and where the blackmail must come from. You only need to act as my wife— the widower, a Mr Edwards, will be our garant. You do not need to talk.”

Enola sat straight up at that. “You’re trying to get an invitation to a club that does orgies, with your wife, and you want her to act silent and demure?” She couldn’t help the faint sarcasm in her question.

The carriage halted with a jolt, and Enola was too busy keeping her balance to study Sherlock’s reaction. When she catches her bearings, Sherlock is looking at her with a steady gaze. “You may have a point,” he admits. “Still. It’s your first time. You should act shy and follow my lead.”

Enola rolls her eyes— Sherlock jumps out of the carriage and onto the street. He holds out his arm for her, a sturdy bastion against the dirt of the road. “Try not to bungle it up, it will be me Mycroft will blame if it gets out.”

Sherlock grinned. “You don’t know Mycroft half as well as you profess you do. He’s not keen on how you were raised, but he’s also not hawkish enough to make you the laughing stock among the populus. You’re too young, still, despite your seventeen years of age. Never fear, I will be the one to take the blame. Mrs. Edgerton.”

He pulls her along without regard for her new shoes or the length of her dress. She wishes she has the belt with clamps that keep her dresses at home nicely hitched, but then she would also not be elegant and chic. Though, how anyone could be elegant getting dragged along the sidewalk escapes her at the moment.

"Husband!" she calls out pitifully, and Sherlock trips over himself. She gets close enough to pinch him in the waist and does so unceremoniously. “Please wait for your poor, infirm wife. If you wanted me to run on cobblestone I would have chosen different heels.”

“I could carry you,” Sherlock offers solicitously but with a twinkle in his eye. She swats him lightly for the presumption.

“Ahh, the two love birds!” A cheery voice interrupts their banter. “I’ve long wanted to meet the woman my dear Mr Edgerton dotes on so—isn’t that right Mr Edwards, didn’t I say we should meet up for luncheon since long ago—I’m very glad to meet you finally, dearie, you’re a vision in green! No wonder he hides you away so secretly! My, what a pretty little thing you’ve married Mr Edwards!”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says to the verbose barrage. He looks very dignified and doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s not a luncheon now, of course,” the woman, who Enola has yet to be introduce to, chatters on. “A proper tea is better than a quick bite to eat at noon--what does one want with bites of sweets and candy that don’t fill up and only strain the purse, right dearie?"

It takes a lot of effort not to doze and let the torrent of words rush past her. She tries her best to stay alert and attentive, but this woman sure can talk and talk and talk. None of it is very relevant to anything Sherlock has told her, and so she wonders if she had been double-crossed. After awhile, through the conversation with her husband and the other two people present, she finds out that the woman’s name is Mrs Weston, she’s known Sherlock (that is, Mr Edgerton) for ages, which Enola mentally translates to a fortnight, and she’s an avid connoisseur of this club’s more extravagant offerings. This outing sure was extremely boring—until suddenly, things start getting interesting.

“I heard from John—Mr Edwards—that you were interested in one of our private showings?"

This is Enola’s cue, apparently. She perks up and flutters her eyelashes. "It’s my first time in one of these. I haven’t gone out much, I’m from the countryside, you see."

"Oh, dearie," Mrs Weston says with wide eyes. "That must sure be a treat for you then! Don’t worry, I’ll tell my friend Mrs  Pietruszka to take special care of you. She’s the proprietress, you know. The men would of course not call her the Madam, as it is actually her brother, you know, the Earl of W— who managed the business but has he ever set foot in the offices? No, he did not."

Enola listens intensely, but there’s only uninteresting gossip. By the time the food has been devoured and the pipes have been smoked, she’s reminded of the etiquette lessons Miss Harrison used to torture her with.

When they are finally allowed to leave, closer to the evening, they have acquired an invitation to a party held at the private social club. They’re invited as a couple, and Mrs Weston reassures them that they’ll "love it" but if they need the space to settle down there would be a private room they could seclude themselves in. This sounds very promising to Enola, though it doesn’t seem relevant at all to the case.

More and more she wonders why Sherlock asked for her participation, and what his reasons were. It’s not entirely clear to her if Sherlock is looking for an excuse to work together with her, or what his ultimate purpose might be.

She supposes it doesn’t matter—it’s quite nice to be needed and it can’t hurt her reputation. Maybe she will have clients of her own that aren’t Edith Burton’s clients who need proof that their husbands are stepping out on them. Or newsboys who want her to divine the location of their hats.

Which reminds her! On the way back to Sherlock’s apartment, and then later to her own, she needs to let Arthur know that she’ll be busy for the foreseeable future, and to wait for her on Sunday after church to deal with the newsboy’s network.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson comes out bustling with yet more tea and scones, asking about the latest fashions and the quality of the meal. Enola barely remembers either but could fish out some pertinent details after a little rummaging in her memory.

"Well, dearie," Mrs Hudson tells her, and pats her shoulder, "in the future you need to observe and deduct more of the pertinent fashion trends, since your brother can’t be trusted." Bewildered, Enola watches her return to her own flat.

"Don’t forget the tea!" Sherlock calls after her. The social niceties thus successfully managed, heturns to the pertinent topic of their gathering. And finally, Enola gets an explanation from Sherlock what it is exactly that they are spending their time on.

"It’s an interesting case, no doubt," Sherlock says. "Not the least bit because I have the suspicion that the murder of Angela Edwards neé Worthington is no such thing, and the blackmailer has no idea what they are talking about. Of course, my client interfered as much, but that still begs the question of why they didn’t go to the police with the matter."

"Because the private social club’s activities include orgies and other very eccentric ?" Enola asks, because this seems obvious.

Sherlock scoffs. "Nonsense. That seems to be titillating stories to get new members interested in joining. How would an upstanding member of society let themselves be blackmailed for a little bit of sexual deviancy, they should go and complain about Queen Victoria’s nipple rings. Let me tell you about my discoveries."

Enola laughs a bit hysterically. She’s heard that rumor herself, even though she doubts it’s veracity. It’s just—Sherlock is a bit much, stating it so out of the blue.

"I have been contacted by a Mr Edwards. Apparently, his wife drowned in the Thames a few weeks ago. I have not had the pleasure to see the body—the police fished her out and ruled it an accident. Thus far, the case remains exceedingly standard and not worth an ounce of my brainpower. Open shut case, even the London constabulary couldn’t bungle that one."

He paused, stared out the window. "Mr Edwards came to me with letters of incriminating nature. He was being blackmailed for murdering his fiancee to hide his unusual sexual tastes. Apparently, he and his fiancee were frequenting a particular club of eccentric nature and during a risque game, his fiancee lost her life—whereas he staged a burglary gone wrong and dumped her body in the Thames. So the letter at least. Bewildering, in my experience, to have something so ludicrous put on paper. I’d have recommended my client to put it out of his mind and burn the letter, alas, Mr Edwards thought there might be proof of incriminating photographs taken during the activities at their private social club, and paid a handsome fifty entire pounds to the blackmailer. The rich do love to throw around their money."

“Someone really got murdered?” Enola asks. “Wouldn’t it be all over the newspapers? Was it one of the people at the lunch today?”

“No,” Sherlock says abruptly and then goes silent and doesn’t elaborate, no matter how much Enola badgers him.  Instead, he continues with his explanations, "Mr Edwards assured me quite earnestly—and I believe him—that he has never in his life participated in risque sexual encounters. He wasn’t even able to articulate what a risque sexual encounter was!—in any case, he was completely enraged by the slandering of his late wife and wanted me to catch the blackmailer."

"So far, so good," he continued. "During the course of my investigation, I discovered that his wife led a much more interesting life than Mr Edwards, who works as an accountant for the Pemsbridge & Co office with a passion and strife that is quite unlike him otherwise. His fiancee was well-known to a certain clientele as a femme fatale who liked to seduce married men and then leave them hanging for more. Apparently, she also introduced her husband to a social club to which she was a frequent visitor, a private club of utmost secrecy called Adventure Club for the Married Couple, which operates a clandestine—"

He pauses. Directs a glance through his eyelashes at her. Then, his gaze flits around the room to a bookshelf, the skull, the stairways, until finally, it lands back on her. His eyes are very brown. Reassuring, in a way. It feels like a solid weight. "I should not be talking around the bush—it’s a club for carnal pleasures, apparently. They call themselves for married couples, but they don’t actually require proof of marriage. Just that you come in with a partner. Apparently, there’s been advertisements in the Times, a few times, and they are not _a matchmaking business_ as the proprietress told me three times as I tried to enter with different disguises."

Enola blinked. "So you need a woman."

Sherlock nodded twice, then added "Or a man, but there’s also—who should I take along? Mycroft? Inspector Lestrade? No, I thought of you almost immediately."

Enola didn’t know if she shouldn’t feel flattered at that, but she couldn’t help the warm feeling of pride welling up in her. It was a strange way to compliment someone, yes, but it was very heartfelt. 

Mrs Hudson shouts from down the stairwell, "Tell her about the dandy!"

Sherlock doesn’t even blink about his landlady listening in on his expositions. But he doesn’t tell Enola about the dandy he could have taken to the private social club of clandestine affairs instead of her.

Enola is almost disappointed.

* * *

They take a rented cab to the club’s location. Sherlock says it’s very easy to disappear in the mass of black carriages when Enola looks dubious. He says cabbies are the most uninteresting people on the planet. Enola, not trying terribly hard to be contrary, strikes up a conversation through the hole in the side of the carriage, and discovers his other job as a musician at the Orchestra house, which pays the bills only so-so and he’s trying to save money to marry.

She shoots a look towards Sherlock who demonstrably yawns. 

London manages to hold a large amount of excellent buildings and street houses, and the building they eventually arrive at, is a fine example of the classic lines of the Victorian period. The windows are large and plentiful, making uniform heating a particular struggle. There’s much relief to be had in the summers, like now, when the windows can be opened and a soft breeze is allowed to spread throughout the building.

The large, ornate doors open to a larger than usual atrium. There’s a cloakroom with a doorman to one side, and a sprawling staircase opening to the upper floors while the entire left downstairs is left wide open. There are plenty of chairs, some tables, plants, a piano—the smell of coffee mingles with sherry and other port. It’s inviting, if imposing, with plenty of ornate yet superfluous decorations—the tapestry in gold and purple overwhelming in its presence. There’s a chandelier in the center of the room giving off too much sparkle and not enough light at the same time. Enola would almost call the feeling decadent splendour.

"Excuse me, Milady, Gentleman—do you have an invitation?" a man says, stepping out of the sideroom to greet them with the largest smile Enola has ever seen on anyone.

Perplexed, she catches herself staring. It is downright suspicious to be greeted by someone with a smile that wide. He looks normal enough, in clean, well-maintained clothes. His shoes look new and are a bit more elaborately decorated than Sherlock’s.

Sherlock is the one who has to introduce them and hand over the handwritten invitation, because Enola is too stunned to do much more than stare at that smile.

"Handsome, is he?" Sherlock whispers into her hair.

The shell of her ears are very sensitive, she can feel his warm breath brush over. Still, she shakes her head.

"New inductees, aren’t you?" The doorman says and smiles, if possible, even wider. Enola is horrified. She manages to nod, and hopes her expression passes for shy.

"I’ll call down the Lady of the House to show you around," he says, continuing to smile.

"That’d be lovely, thank you," Sherlock replies, and pinches Enola’s side. Hurriedly, she starts looking around again.

On a closer look, the large room on the left hand is lined with huge paintings, depicting scenes from Greek and Roman mythology—Narcissus pleasuring himself in front of a pond, Artemis flouncing around with ethereal beauties, Leda with her swan.

Before she could investigate the truly interesting art further, a woman glides down on the staircase. She’s wearing a deep red and purple gown, her hair styled in the French way, huge, billowing curls on the side of her face. Her lips are bright red. This is a woman, who does not care about propriety and decency. Enola is awed.

"Hello, guests," she greets them. Her voice is very deep and husky. "Welcome to my parlour."

"Thank you," Sherlock says smoothly and sketches a bow. "We’ve heard a lot about it."

"Only the good things, I hope," she laughs. Now that she’s closer, Enola’s eyes keep drawing to her décolleté, neatly pressed mounts that look absolutely devastating. She looks like a woman who does not lose control, but makes others lose theirs instead.

"About how beautiful its proprietress is, for example," Sherlock says. It’s incredible how smoothly that comes out of his mouth, Enola would be stuttering already.

She laughs again, more genuine somehow this time. "For flattery this good, I will deign to let you explore the premisses before the reading, my very charming guests."

"There’s no need," Sherlock demurs. "The reading is that way?" He points towards the far side of the room where a hallway leads further.

"In the Asian room, yes," she smiles faintly. "You can’t miss it. Here, have the key for your couple's room, if you need to let off steam together later." She hands over a large key with a door number, presumably matching with a door number on the upper floors. Enola eyes it—she’s never seen a key like that before, but she’s read novels set in shady inns. This doesn’t seem to be that.

They walk into the direction given, leaving Mrs  Pietruszka to greet the sitting guests.

The artwork lining the walls is still very interesting. Definitely risque, definitely a little deviant, Enola would say, little as she knows about it.

The first door opens to a room full of Egyptian mummies. "This does not seem to be the Asian room," she tells Sherlock, who nods. They continue onwards, where they see Mrs Weston animatedly participating in a lively discussion.

The next door, however, opens to the Asian room. It’s immediately recognisable as such, thanks to the huge silk screens dividing the room into parts. A huge tapestry with a giant octopus devouring a naked woman covers the entire side of the wall. Wood prints with like-minded scenes line the other three walls.

“This isn’t only a private social club—“ Enola realises suddenly.

Sherlock hushes her. He also only now seems to have noticed exactly what they’ve stumbled into. “So the blackmail is partially real?" Enola goes through the people she’s met and tries to figure out if any of them are suspicious. Mrs Weston was awfully eager to have the young couple participate in these sex acts. No wonder they are offering rooms.

Sherlock doesn’t react. Sherlock is lost in thought staring at the cupboard as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

Enola hasn’t had a great education about the abyss of human sexuality. She does know a bit—her mother was keen to impart knowledge on her in an academic manner, so that she would not feel lost or disgusted encountering it. One of mother’s friends showed off her nipple rings once and Enola had been endlessly fascinated.

Nothing more could be said to this, so Enola didn't even try. Instead, she snooped along the corridor, to see how the other patrons were behaving, and if any of them were suspicious in any manner.

Someone starts moaning behind one of the huge silk screens. This may have been a mistake. Perhaps they should—leave. Sherlock continues to behave like a statue next to her. She pulls at him. "This is an orgy," she hisses at him. "Do you really want to participate in an orgy! With your little sister!" Sherlock stares at her with the widest eyes, and then finally, his soul seems to return to him.

"Let's leave," he says, and now he’s the one pulling at her.

While they rush along the hallway, Enola tries to slow him down. "What about the case," she asks, and then, when for some reason that doesn’t work, she adds, "There’s a private room on one of the upper floors! Shouldn’t we check that out?"

And thank god: Sherlock does seem to hear her. They change directions. Sherlock is also slowing down. His flight instinct has calmed down, though his face is still deep red from embarrassment. They pass the sitting group in the front hall and go past the stairs. "I’m sorry, Enola," he says.

"Why are you sorry," Enola replies cheerfully. "This is the most fun I had in ages. Do you think there’s a library?"

"Enola!" he hisses, scandalised.

"You tell him, girl!" an old man snickers from a chaise longue.

Enola has never seen Sherlock take the stairs so fast.

* * *

The room is nice. It looks like a room, a bed, curtains. It certainly looks nothing like the elaborate downstairs arrangement of artful erotica.

“This is ludicrous,” Sherlock says once the door is closed and they’re in private. "I can’t believe Mr Edwards! And he didn’t warn me. I knew the murder was suspect, so I just imagined the sexual deviancy to be—"

"Oh, come on," Enola says. "Mrs Weston gave hints the size of the Tower Bridge. And nobody pays out 50 pounds if they got nothing to hide. You can’t play the naive now. You planned this."

"I did not," Sherlock says affronted in exactly the manner that said he did plan at least part of it, and now that an unexpected hurdle came up, he wanted to deny the whole thing.

Enola has not caught the entire trap yet. Initially, she thought he’d only wanted to fake a case to learn how she was doing, but now she’d become uncertain. What was Sherlock planning?

Enola ignores the mutterings at her side and focuses instead on the — truly decadent! — bed. Not in any way as disappointed as her brother, she spots the mirror spanning the entire canopy of the four-poster bed first. It’s a silvered mirror, and her wide eyes look clear and vivid back at her. The purpose is very clear, she’s quite uncertain about how it would feel, however. She wouldn’t want to watch herself sleep—or do other stuff.

Her ears heat up in embarrassment, and she looks for Sherlock, who is inspecting the dirt between the wood-paneling on the floor. She looks back to the bed. The pillows were fully fluffed, finest feather downs and the mattress was no less than twenty inches thick. There’s a coset, and Enola goes to open it. Then closes it quickly in embarrassment. Had she said this room looked normal compared to downstairs? She’d take it back.

As quickly as she’s closed the door, Sherlock notices her discovery. He comes over and places his hand on the cupboard with the erotic paraphernalia. Enola’s first instinct is to press the door more and turn around.

They are so close together that she can smell the familiar scent of her brother, pomade, and all. It should be the opposite of attractive, and yet the curved corners of his eye, his hair curling into ringlets just above his color, the strength visible in his broad shoulders; they all serve to make Enola aware that her brother is one very attractive man.

She swallows a gulp. Sherlock is much taller than her usually, but like this, wearing heels, they are almost the same height. She can see his clear eyes well, could even count his every eyelash.

Enola Holmes presses against the closet and dares not to move an inch.

Sherlock‘s eyes are both fixed on her, the pupils reflecting her image.

Wisps of hair are scattered across his forehead. Beneath the high bridge of his nose are his lips unreasonably red for a man not wearing lipstick, forming a stark contrast against his skin that was as white as porcelain and bringing about an inexplicable temptation. The secret stash behind her only heightens her desire.

Enola Holmes feels closer to an overheated oven stove, heat flashing across her cheeks and ears. She cannot take the prolonged eye contact—what if Sherlock can tell what she was thinking about?

Sherlock’s lips curve into a slight smile. Slowly, he pulls open the doors and Enola further into his arms — and then reveals to the room the shelf full of dildos.

"That’s it," he says. "I’m done."

* * *

"This is your fault," Enola says when they traipse down the stairs trying to avoid the other patrons, and also the moaning and groaning coming from multiple directions. "You were warned and didn’t listen, and when I asked questions you told me to shut up and go away. This was suspicious from the start."

Sherlock pinches her. "You’re right," he says. "I said so three times already. I’m very sorry, I should’ve been more careful choosing my clients. Can you stop now?"

"I bet it’s the doorman. His smile is suspicious, and he’s wearing new shoes."

Sherlock sighs, exasperated. "If you distract the other people, I can go investigate the side room."

"Deal," Enola says. "What do I get if I’m right?"

"Personal satisfaction?" Sherlock asks.

"How about a kiss?"

Sherlock sends her an indulgent look. "Deal. A kiss."

And Enola cannot help her blush.

* * *

Nothing much escapes Sherlock, either. Enola could lean back and let him solve the crimes all by himself, but why should she let him have all the fun? He invited her for a reason. More and more that reason seemed to be suspect at best and like a strange way to check in on her general living situation--which was fine, even though the small room took on the London summer heat much quicker than she had anticipated.

Instead, she goes out to the street while Sherlock is busy going through the ledger and questioning the doorman who seems to have a strong habit of imbibing in too much drink, perhaps even at work. Outside, the sun is shining and she has to blink against the glaring light of the sun. It has gotten warmer.

"Lord Bellweather is stepping down, the price of tea keeps increasing, new tailor opened on High Street," she heard a paperboy call out. Excellent timing, she thinks by herself, and then hurries across the road, bunching up her dress for easier movement.

"Hey—Jimmy, Jimmy!" Closer to him, she recognises his face. He’s not one of hers, yet, but he should know that there’s a girl down the docks who pays for information. When he turns, his eyes open wide. He doesn’t recognise her, how could he, in the get-up she’s wearing.

"Do you have some news to sell to Enola, down at the river," she asks breathlessly.

Jimmy pauses, looks at her suspiciously. She doesn’t mind, likes that her boys are a bit wary of strangers, but it’s always inconvenient when they run from her nun impersonations. "How do you know that phrase?"

"It’s me," she says, breathlessly, having caught up with him. "The owner of the detective agency, down by the river."

"You?" he says disbelievingly. He eyed her again, paying special attention to the jewellery on her chest and the highly decorative if rather impractical shoes. "You’re Enola Holmes?"

"That’s right."

"You’re looking like a toff," he says, rightfully charming.

Enola grimaces. Yeah, she does look like a toff, and it’s hella uncomfortable, but one does what one must. In this case, reassuring Sherlock that she can behave appropriately to the rest of society and only if she has to—which, case in point: Mr Edwards isn’t such a white lamb either, with his weird sexual tastes and his fear of getting blackmailed for them. "It’s a necessary evil of my profession," she explains. Then, she goes closer for the conspiratory whisper, "I am investigating a case."

Comprehension dawns on his face. It brightens him considerably, and Enola smiles. She’s not been wrong in her evaluation of him being a smart one.

"I have a question I wanted to ask," Enola says. "It would be a huge help to my ongoing investigation. A matter of great importance."

Jimmy looks daunted, as if he’s not quite sure what to make of it. "I don’t know anything," he says. "I just deliver the paper."

"But you do remember the headlines, don’t you—Tommy said you’ve an excellent mind for that. You can recite the headlines going three weeks back, he said. That’s very impressive."

He blushes and shuffles his feet. "I only really got the Times and the Morning Post," he says. "It’s not that much. Me mum remembers all the personal adverts going back months. She collects the obituaries, you know."

"I can pay you a five-pence if you can help me," Enola tells him. She’s got her purse on a string and fumbles a bit to get it out between the bones of her corset. Jimmy stands there and watches fascinated. "Uh, sure!" he says, stumbling over his words. "What do you need to know?"

Enola finally has the coin in her fingers, and unceremoniously dumps it into Jimmy’s hands. "I wondered if you could remember any big news stories about a woman getting killed walking along the Thames."

“Oh, the Lady what fell into the river?” Jimmy said. “Terrible what ‘appened to ‘er.”

"The Lady what fell into the river," she repeats.

"Yeah, she was apparently married to some big shot in the g’vernment, and when they were walking along the river late at night, the Lady slipped and fell down the embankment and drowned. Well, they tried to drag her out, and her husband jumped into the water after her, but it was a tricky current, and she was miles downstream when they fished her back out. The husband clung to a bridge pillar and managed to shout for help, but the woman they only found the next morn. I can look into my stack of papers back home, I can get more if you need it," he explains very helpfully.

"She fell into the river," Enola repeats once again, because she’s still processing. And suddenly it clicks and comes through in one picture. Sherlock had prepared dresses for her, not for a theoretical undercover stint with a random woman. Sherlock had invited her to investigate a case. Sherlock was a terrible terrible liar. This what had been missing all along: There were witnesses to her death! And the police had probably only found the bruises on the corpse later, or maybe nobody had looked at all—only the blackmailer, who had used it as proof for nefarious purposes. Everything became clear suddenly.

This was why Sherlock knew Mr Edwards had participated in the orgy, and this explained why he’d been such a nag in the private social club—what was he doing, building a secret treasure hunt so that she could investigate a case? Did he think she was that bored?

Why in Mary Wollstonecraft's name would he ever think that necessary? Had he sniffed too much tobak? Taken too much cocaine? Had he been inveigled with Mycroft or did he get these strange ideas all on his own? And they had the temerity to call Mother the irresponsible flake! At least she had never pretended there was a crime when none had happened.

"Thank you, you’ve been a great help!" she says and shakes his hand vigourously. "If you ever have any interesting news for me, or run into a trouble, my detective agency operates out of the lower dock area, just find any newsboy and they probably know how to find me."

* * *

"You’ve been scamming me," Enola greets Sherlock. He’s staring at the entranceway as if it had secrets that could reveal themselves by staring hard enough. He doesn’t _look_ as if he’d only been pretending the whole time, and that’s what Enola finds so insidious.

"What?" he looks back at her.

"Margarete Edwards. The victim of your crime. She had an accident a couple of weeks ago and fell into the embankment river. So why are we investigating her murder in what amounts to a sex club?"

Sherlock turns his face away, not looking her in the eye. "There really is a case," he says, quietly protesting.

"Mr Edwards being blackmailed for being a sexual deviant?" Enola asks. "Which he is, and it’s not hard to tell that it’s the doorman because he’s fallen into drink and wants some of that money these people spend so liberally. I cannot believe these people put _gold flakes_ on their pudding to pretend they’re richer than god!"

Sherlock has the decency to look uncomfortable. "I didn’t think—"

"I’d find out? What a great thing to say to your sister starting out in her vocation. 'I don’t think you’re very good at your job, so how about I bring you on a case that I made up,' to do what, I wonder! Oh, the little darling is insensible, she wants to work for a living, better give her a little occupational therapy and soon her humours will align again!"

"Enola," Sherlock says. "That’s not what I was—I didn’t think you’d mind— I wanted to see how you were doing— if there was an interesting case I would have rather chosen that, but nobody wanted to murder each other and I was getting impatient." He looks genuinely remorseful, which is the only reason Enola even thinks about accepting this half-assed apology. Sherlock does get the weirdest ideas set inside his head. And she did like spending some time with him. But she’s going to stay mad for a few more hours just to show him how seriously she takes her professional dignity! And so should he! What a disgrace.

She turns away without replying. She’s going to find Mrs Pietruszka and tell her in detail while she should keep a better eye on her doormen and the general hygiene of the bedrooms—dust mites under the bed where maybe something to tolerate in an inn but a club where you could have gold-flaked peach melba could damn well pay their maids a better wage.

"…How did you find out?" Sherlock followed her.

"It was suspicious from start to finish! You had shoes prepared for my size! Four of them! Only I felt too rushed to really think about it—"

"No, I mean… good to know for next time—"

"Next time?" Infuriated, Enola turns around.

Sherlock smiles a little half-smile, cheeky and yet it cools her anger, seeing that dimple in his cheek. That’s how they get you, men, brothers, all the same, she thinks while trying to suppress all feelings of affection.

"How did you find out it was the doorman?" Sherlock asked. "I wasn’t sure myself until I saw his stack of newspapers, with choice pages missing. But you’ve never seen the blackmailer’s letter type."

Enola didn’t mention that she became suspicious only because Sherlock investigated his small desk at the anteroom. Instead, she goes for, "He was too friendly. He smiled at every single patron, and you do that if you’re very anxious about losing your job or very suspicious."

"It can’t be that he’s a happy person?" Sherlock asks, the same way mum asked if she thought Enola was right but not yet willing to admit to it.

"Pshaw. He’s a Londoner, not someone from the Americas."

At that, Sherlock laughs. "I’m sorry," he says, after he’s calmed down again. "I should’ve thought more about how you’d feel getting tricked into a—less serious investigation than I pretended it was. I was worried about you, but I shouldn’t have let that run away with me. I do value your work, and everything you’ve tried to help me with. You’re a wonderful detective."

Meanwhile, they crossed the atrium, all the way to the side room where the doorman has his alcove. "I’m getting Mrs Pietruszka," Enola says and proceeds to do just that.

Before she can get to the stairs, however, the doorman has been alerted to their manoeuvre. Like an idiot who blackmails people, he rushes Sherlock, as if running away would change anything about his crimes. Sherlock doesn’t manage to stop him, and he runs past. Straight towards the exit and Enola.

As if afraid, Enola jumps down, but now she has better leverage. When he’s in reach, she pushes out her leg. He stumbles. It leaves time for Sherlock to jump him, too, and the both of them tumble down on the floor and roll around.

"Get Mrs  Pietruszka," Enola yells towards the bystanders, "and perhaps the London police while we’re at it! There’s a runner at Main Street."

One of the maids bundles her skirts into her hand and starts running. Soon, Mrs Pietruszka arrived to look over the scene like a queen her subjects. Sherlock had managed to wrestle the doorman underneath his knee. One of his locks had fallen over his face. He was looking a bit roughed up. A bit of perspiration was visible on his forehead—he looked good.

"What is happening here?" Mrs Pietruszka’s gaze lingers on Sherlock. Enola understands the impulse, she wants to stare at her brother and watch him subdue criminals—or boxers!—but there’s a time and place for anything.

"My br—husband," she corrects herself hastily, and notices for the first time that what Sherlock and her are doing here, right under the eyes of every judgemental member of society, might be a bit more than just risque. "My husband," she repeats more forcefully, disregarding her stray thoughts and focusing on the matter at hand, "was hired to investigate his client’s blackmailer. That’s why we participated in your soiree — it was very entertaining nonetheless! Certainly nothing I could have ever imagined! He found not only letters addressed to his client, but multiple of your patrons."

Mrs Pietruszka’s eyes grow harsh and unyielding. "Has someone informed the police?" she asks, her voice icy. Enola reassures her that the police have been called and provided a brief summary of events. With cold eyes, Mrs Pietruszka listens to the list of names provided by Sherlock’s investigation. "A very daring man," she notes, after Enola is finished. "He’ll end in the poorhouse or the gallows if there’s any justice."

Enola shrugs. She does not think he will. Not many of his victims will want to talk about the crime he committed, or provide any of the evidence to the public. But she’s done—she’s had fun, but wonders at Sherlock’s objective. This does not look like any of the cases he worked on. It could not be that he’d just been looking for an excuse to spend time with her?

No, that was simply a mad idea. Perhaps it had been a whim.

A great many bystanders appear before a man in uniform does, and more time was spent waiting when the police man realises the breath of people implicated (and the scandal it would cause when any of this leaked to the papers!) and calls on his superiors. He takes their statements, shakes his head in wonder and looks in awe at Sherlock, a lot. It’s very annoying.

When Inspector Lestrange arrives, most of the spectators had already left filled with gossip about the strange happenings at the private social club. It would only add to the mystery of the invitation-only, exclusive club. Certainly none of the patrons would talk about it, and if the police knew—well, they equally knew to keep their mouth shut about the eccentrics of the upper class, as long as it didn’t hurt anybody. The only thing Enola is really worried about is the fact that she is not Sherlock’s wife but his sister instead. What if the rumours about the great detective going around with a young wife are spread? Mycroft would kill them both, for doing this to him.

Sherlock squeezes her hand, as if to reassure her, and then tucks her hand into his elbow. "Don’t worry," he says to her quietly. Then, louder, to Lestrange. "Lestrange! If you could hurry up with the proceedings! I’m a busy man!"

Inspector Lestrange sends him a death glare and comes over. "You’re allowed to leave. You did not actually plant any evidence, did you?" He doesn’t spare a glance at her, as if all of his exasperation is focused on her brother only.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Would I need to, by the volume of letters the man has in his drawers?"

Inspector Lestrange shakes his head. "How did you even find out about this guy? Stumbling over him in your copious free time?"

"We were hired for a case, of course," Sherlock says and nods towards Enola.

"Oh," Inspector Lestrange says. "I’m sorry, Miss Holmes. I did not notice you were present. I assume this is your work then? As it really is too neatly tied up to be your brothers. I cannot believe there is evidence of the crime, and not several deductions that don’t make sense to anyone without a degree in apiaristry."

Enola blinks wide-eyed at the Inspector. Sherlock pinches her hard, and she sends a furious glare at him. She doesn’t need his help at all! But it is a relief to have her reputation established thusly, without much effort on her part. She’s damn-well not going to be thankful for this sort of high-handedness!

Soon enough, the whole mess gets wrapped up, and Inspector Lestrange leads them personally into a rented carriage to return to Baker Street. Enola is glad to be done with it.

* * *

"Was it just a diversion to get me to dress up as a lady?" Enola says, after the hubbub is over and they’re on their own again.

Sherlock looks up. His gaze is wistful, his smile gentle. "Perhaps," he says. "Mycroft would certainly put it that way. Maybe I myself like dressing up too much, and so I search it out in other people. Perhaps I wanted to give you the opportunity to sparkle, in an environment that was very different from your usual haunts. Perhaps I just wanted to spend time with my sister. You shouldn’t discount that, you’re a very interesting person, Enola. I want to watch you grow up and be even better than—" His voice cracks on the last word of the sentence.

It doesn’t matter. Sherlock doesn’t need to finish his explanation for it to touch her feelings. Enola stands up on her tiptoes and reaches for her brother. She sets a chaste kiss on his cheeks, and then steps back. "You are the loveliest brother I could wish for," she says.

He blushes.

And Enola smiles impishly. She’s going to rope him into paying for her newsboy network, and he’s not even going to notice it was her idea.

"You still owe me that kiss," she says—and it’s perfect.


End file.
